


Stew for the lady

by writingstarsinthesky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Gen, also welcome to bucknat hell self, the stony is implied but shhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:29:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingstarsinthesky/pseuds/writingstarsinthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier hated the cold</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stew for the lady

**Author's Note:**

> Instead of starting a paper I did a fic for my new ship oh well

The Winter Soldier hates winter, ironically enough.

It wasn’t his arm, which adjusted easily to his body temperature so it didn’t lock up or over heat, it’s not his scars or injuries, which ache when it gets too cold but he’s been taught to ignore pain, it was the  _fucking wet snow._

Sticking to his boots, soaking through his armor as he lay on a rooftop for hours, waiting for the perfect shot, and now crunching loud underfoot, keeping him from dry clothes and a warm fire and the next mission he’s soon to receive. 

It was nice, having multiple missions in a row. He was allowed to stay at a cabin owned by Pierce, in a little Russian town where no one would find him. He didn’t even have to go under until the last mission was done, so he can keep his thoughts for a week at least; maybe two, if Pierce needed another job unexpectedly. It was almost like being normal. 

At least until he sees his little cabin, with thin wisps of smoke coming from the stone chimney. His hand goes to the pistol at his side, eyes darting over the place. The window, the  _fucking_  window, he had left it unlocked. Stupid, sloppy. He shuts the window as he moves through the snow, creeping around to the back door as quietly as he can.

It opens under his metal fingers, silently stepping into the house. It’s already warm, a fire crackling in the main room. He peers into his room, finding nothing out of place- his weapons, his gear, are all still in his bag- and he blinks when he finds the safe still sealed tight. The only thing that was missing were his blankets, his twin bed stripped.

What kind of burglar leaves guns and money alone, and what kind of assassin takes blankets?

He steps into the main room, and he can see a shock of red hair coming from the cocoon of blankets on his couch. He reaches out, pulling the blankets down as slowly as he can, not wanting to wake his little intruder.

Her face is pale, her lips even paler. Not dead but close, and even to his numb fingers she’s cold. She’s young, probably about twenty, and her hair is the bright red of blood, of the flickering flames. He brushes the curls out of her face, studying her carefully. She is  _very_  pretty...

He shifts his blankets a little lower, and snatches his hand back as if burned. The uniform is painfully familiar to the intelligence community; no wonder he hadn’t seen any foot prints in front of his home. 

The question was, what was a graduate of the Red Room doing so far away from her home?

\---

Natasha Romanoff is dreaming. She dreams of a sun bright field, the flowers soft as the grass tickles her fingers. She’s picking honeysuckle for her mama, and she can already see the fond smile she’ll receive when she hands the bouquet to her.

She turns when she hears a man calling her name,  _“Natalia!”,_ expecting her father to scoop her up, laughing and grinning through his beard as he twirls her around, high over his head. Instead a man in a suit approaches, his face blank, dark glasses and no mouth, his long fingered hands reaching out for her. 

The flowers fall into the ground and turn to dust, and she runs, runs through the sharp grass, tears flowing down her face. Her feet fail her and she falls, a rock cutting open her belly and snow flows from her, freezing cold and the man loom, reaching and touching her arms and she  _screams--_

Her eyes fly open, moving to clutch her stomach and looking wildly around her shelter for the long fingered man, the field covered in sunlight. A dream, only a dream... 

Something still feels wrong, though. Fuzzy, soft to the touch. Not grass, but gauze. 

Someone’s wrapped her stomach, covering the ugly stitches left in her abdomen. Her fingers slowly explore the edges of the bandage, and she suddenly becomes aware of a tuneless humming. It’s coming from the kitchen, and how the fuck had she let herself sleep long enough to let the owner of the place come home without her knowing?

Before she can tense, before she can plan, there’s heavy footsteps and a man walks into the room. His hair is long and pulled back into a small ponytail, and there are circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep. He’s clearly a mercenary; the way he moves, the way he’s built, his body armor all scream it. Oh, and the giant metal arm. That’s kind of a give away.

He moves forward, a steaming bowl in one hand and a pill bottle in the other. She opens her mouth to speak, and he shakes her head, cutting her off. 

“ _Don’t speak. Eat. You nearly froze to death, and you need strength to answer my questions.”_ His Russian is flawless, but he’s not a native. He’s too formal, and the language is like a hotel room rather than a home on his tongue.

So she takes the bowl, taking a deep whiff. It’s rich and meaty, more than anything they ever gave them at the Red Room, and her stomach twists in want.

“ _Take a bite_.” She insists, holding the bowl back to him, her eyes not leaving his. Amusement and exasperation briefly flick through his face, then he is once more passive. He sets the pill bottle next to her- someone has scratched the label clean off but she knows painkillers when she sees them- and bends, obligingly taking a spoonful of the stew and swallowing, still watching her.

After confirming he doesn’t drop dead, Natasha tips the bowl to her lips, drinking half the broth in one go, the meat and vegetables he’s provided sending tingling fullness into her numb fingers. 

“ _Who are you_?” He finally asks, sitting in a chair across from her. She’s finished two bowls of stew by this point, and he’s been quiet through each one. He even held her hair back when her stomach rejected the first bowl of warm food, retching into the basin he provided.

She sips from her cup of water, eying him curiously. “ _Natasha Romanoff_.” She says simply. No reason to lie, not yet anyway. He hadn’t killed her and he had fed her and let her warm herself up, so she was seeing where the night was going. “ _Graduate of the Red Room. I didn’t feel like sticking around for the after party.”_

He nods, as if he was expecting that. “ _They don’t let their graduates go easily_.” He remarks, setting his own bowl of stew aside.

Natasha smirks. “ _No, they don’t. That’s why I didn’t ask_.” 

That gets a wry smile out of him, and he offers her the pain pills. “ _Take one; your surgeon must’ve been inexperienced, he did a very poor jo_ b.” He says, eyes dipping to her stomach.

Natasha rolls her eyes, popping a pain pill.  _That_  was the understatement of the century, even given her admission that she had left quietly.

“ _I assume you’ll need a job_.” He says again after a while. He had introduced himself as the Winter Soldier after a moment’s thought, as if he didn’t really know. He had clearly rolled a name around in his mind, but he shook it off. She’d get it out of him someday.

“ _That I do. I doubt my teachers would give me any references, though_.” She snorts, rubbing her bandages. 

“ _I will help you_.” He says, and even he looks a little surprised. “ _But I have to supplement your training; that open window was sloppy_.”

Natasha smirks, leaning back on her pillows. “ _I look forward to it_.”

\----

Bucky was home; he was home, and Steve couldn’t be happier. Well, he could, but that was besides the point. Despite the latest disaster in Slovakia, and Tony’s odd way of expressing they were in a relationship, and the rumbles of dissent in New York, he had his best friend back. That was more than enough.

He sets his keys on the entryway table, smelling the air and frowning a little. As far as he knew, nobody in Avengers tower could cook aside from JARVIS, and his new body was running around with his newest scarlet recruit, learning to be human.

He pokes his head in the kitchen, blinking at the sight and wondering if he was seeing things.

Bucky, in his usual one-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair pulled back into a bun, two bowls balanced in his level metal hand, pouring stew into them. Natasha, in sweatpants herself and her hair long and wavy, falling over her shoulders onto the black tank top she’s wearing, accepting one of the bowls and clinking it against his in a toast.

“James.”

“Natalia.”

Bucky gives her a smile, one she returns, and Steve’s seen that smile on Buck’s face before; Bucky, sighing dreamily over his girl of the week that had actually lasted a year, sprawled out on steve’s floor so Steve could have the cot, two nights before Bucky shipped out.

_“I’m tellin’ ya, Steve, Susie’s the one, she’s the one!”_

_“Yeah, yeah, lover boy, say that again when you meet some girl over there.”_

Steve had gotten a pillow to the face for that crack, but he knew Bucky really had loved her. He never smiled like that  unless he really felt that special kind of love.

Steve smiles as they sip their broth, quietly pulling back out of the warm kitchen


End file.
